


Guardian

by ReddishRodya



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Everything about it is alternate tbh, Kind of Shrinkyclinks but not really, Levi can't take tags seriously I'm sorry, M/M, Philosopher AU, Skinny Steve, Stucky - Freeform, Swear on me mum there's no pedophilia, Violence, age gap, but not like guts everywhere violence just There Will Be Blood Probably, but nothing actually happens until Steve is old enough to consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:30:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6650362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReddishRodya/pseuds/ReddishRodya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Guardians are a class of supernaturally gifted warriors, spirits bound in physical form, who serve as lifetime protectors of the seers of the future, the Philosophers. Made eternally young and nearly invincible, a spirit named James is charged with the care and defense of a young Philosopher named Steven. However, what initially seems a simple task becomes more complex than he expected as Steven grows up, and James has to be ready for anything that might happen -- both of their lives might depend on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rebirth

**Author's Note:**

> Hey it's Levi and I'm going to try to actually do the thing and make a chaptered fic and, you know, try to complete a story.
> 
> This is an idea I've had kicking around in my head for a while. I did roleplay it out a bit with my partner Rory (roryrhys) which has helped flesh out more of the world, but basically, this is a Very Alternate Universe. The only thing that's the same is that there's technically a Steve, and technically a Bucky, and they eventually fall in love, and are happy, and miserable, and happy again, and miserable again, and eventually happy. No more spoilers, but it's gonna be a wild ride.
> 
> Let me stress that although this fic starts out with Steve literally as a baby and will include a lot of child!Steve, **nothing romantic or sexual happens between Bucky and Steve until Steve is a mid-to-older teenager and is able to consent (in his opinion, at least). There's no child abuse, rape, pedophilia etc. of any kind on Bucky's part. At all.** There is age gap, but it's not that kind of age gap. I'm garbage but I'm not that kind of garbage and this is actually not a garbage fic. If there's trash ahead I will warn for trash, but it won't be happening between Bucky and Steve.
> 
> Ok I'll shut up now I hope you like this

A shroud of colored light shone from above upon the marble and stone of the Endless Chamber, casting the world in violet as James looked down, expressionlessly, upon his future.

Positioned in the center of a marble basin, wrapped in a silken silver blanket dappled with stars, was a small, pale infant, crying out pitifully, clenching its tiny fists in protest against the permanent chill of the Chamber’s cold walls. Tufts of whitish fuzz grew erratically from its oversized head, a distant promise of golden hair... but then, he thought, humans often changed as they developed. They molted their old features like feathers as they grew into the new. His sister had been like that. Or, he thought she had.

He thought he’d had a sister, anyway. Once.

The soft yet immense voice of the Grand Philosopher broke through his train of thought, and he was focused, by her will and by his own.

“James Barnes.” That was the name by which he had been summoned. He assumed it was his real one, but then again, maybe it wasn’t.

“Yes,” he answered automatically. His voice was toneless. He felt colorless, an easel waiting to be painted, touched by this... human. This child. If he still felt emotion, he wondered how he might respond. Would he be frightened? Apprehensive? He remembered such words, but could not match them to the feelings. It had been too long.

Over the baby’s cries, the Grand Philosopher spoke. “Do you unwaveringly pledge your life and your soul to this newborn Philosopher, to guard him in his youth and in his age, to stand by his side as his eternal Guardian, frozen in the stream of time, undying until he shall die, unending until he shall end?” The immeasurably old woman was watching him steadily, her eyes as sharp and shining as the blade of a knife. Apparently all Philosophers developed silver eyes in their old age, but hers went so deep, so far into her wisdom. If he could be unnerved, he imagined he would be. 

Nearby, her own Guardian stood silent and attentive. So solid. So still. Was he to be like that?

He allowed an expected pause, the single beat that would keep his answer from sounding mechanical, unreal. He could distantly recall the customs of human speech.

“I do.”

The Grand Philosopher held out her dark and delicate hand. James paused, then raised his own, placing it atop the old woman’s withered fingers. His arm cast a glow of bluish light across the baby’s face, which opened its eyes – astonishingly blue themselves – and fell silent, as if in awe. 

“Then swear, Spirit.”

James raised his luminescent white eyes to the elder across from him and said, in his thin, otherworldly voice, “I swear.”

The Grand Philosopher smiled and placed his hand on the infant’s forehead. The tiny creature was now silent, mewling softly, seemingly intrigued. It reached up with its chubby little fingers towards James’ translucent wrist. 

“By the power vested in me by Sol, God of all Stars, Giver of Life, I now grant you the physical form to protect this child, to honor him, to serve him, and to defend him to the brink of your existence. I make you, James, the Guardian to this new Philosopher, Steven, for as long as you both shall live.” The glow from James’ ethereal hand grew, engulfing the child – Steven, he reminded himself, Steven – in a cradle of light. Steven made an odd squeaking sound or two, confused, it seemed, but not frightened. 

“Repeat the Oath of the Guardian.”

This was it. He focused himself and repeated the words effortlessly, as if he’d known them forever.

“I unwaveringly pledge my life, my soul, and my spirit to you, Steven, Philosopher of the great star Arcturus, for as long as you shall live, in your sickness and in your health, in your life’s journey to your true power. I swear to defend you from all those who may desire your strength for themselves. I bind myself to you and to your soul, never to betray or abandon you. This solemn oath I make in exchange for new life, as our bond will grant me. For you, I shall be unending and forever. I will follow you down whatever path you may walk, and into Death Itself, my charge, my master, my Philosopher.”

As he spoke the last word, James’ phantasmal form was engulfed in light, and for the first time since his death, he felt again.

The feeling was pain. 

It was an extraordinary, searing agony that permeated every part of him, his body taking shape around him in a process that felt like walls closing in. This evoked the second feeling since his death, which was panic. He screamed, squeezing shut his eyes as the world around him seemed to swell and explode, burst into flame and then condense into heavy darkness that clung to every part of him. 

The process took about thirty seconds, but it seemed to go on forever – hours, days, months. Spirits had no concept of time, but he wasn’t a spirit anymore.

His feet hit the ground with the shock of cold stone on bare skin, and he gasped in the first breath he had taken in eons. As he steadied himself with a hand on the lip of the bowl, he felt the brush of hair against his face again, the movement and temperature of the air, the surface of the marble beneath his fingers. He heard the uncertain mewl of the child who had just witnessed his transformation, whatever it may have looked like. James’ head was too clouded to care as every light and scent and sound and texture overwhelmed his corporeal senses. He squeezed his eyes closed and took a second to collect himself.

Only when he felt the silk of the robe around his shoulders, provided by someone nearby, did he realize he was naked. An unexpected heat rose to his face, and as soon as he could stand straight, he wrapped the robe around himself more effectively. The change in his skin’s temperature was unfamiliar to him. What was that heat intended to suggest? _Embarrassment,_ he thought, the word coming to him like an old book from a dusty shelf. Humans were not normally bare, particularly around those they did not know. And he was human, again, as he had been once before.

Well. In a way. Human or not, he was solid. He had a body again, even if it felt awkward and heavy around him, almost cumbersome. It crossed his mind that he did not know if this body resembled the original James Barnes at all, apart from being physically male - and even that he wasn’t entirely sure about. The flashes of memory he still possessed did not include any image of himself. For all he knew, there could be no resemblance at all. Besides, all Guardians had a sort of supernatural quality to them. Even if he did resemble his original self, he was still _different._

As any spirit trapped in the Middenlands, he had craved freedom – craved life and a physical form, yearned for liberation from the isolating nothingness of limbo. That ache for release was how Philosophers found willing spirits to bind; most would give anything to pass into the next world, whether the direction be toward life or death. The Middenlands were like an unanswered question, a word on the tip of your tongue that you can't quite recall. Closure was what compelled them – what compelled him – to take the Oath.

Around him, the world was becoming astonishingly real. Every color was a fascination, every sound its own symphony. The voice of the Grand Philosopher seemed to boom and echo more than ever before, and he was nearly awed.

“The ritual is complete,” she announced. “The child may now be taken to the Tower of Arcturus. You, James, will assist with his care.”

He nodded silently. The Grand Philosopher then lifted the silk-swaddled baby from the basin and placed him into James’ arms. James suddenly became extremely aware of how fragile Steven really was, how small and light and breakable, and he swallowed his nerves with difficulty. How he was expected to care for this soft (and slightly squishy) little creature was utterly beyond him. The newly-ordained Philosopher cooed and reached upward toward him, curling his fingers around a lock of James’ hair, which he now discovered was brown, and nearly shoulder-length. It was hard to read the facial expression of a baby, but Steven seemed... happy. James felt an odd swell in his stomach, and his lips twitched unconsciously into a small but fond smile.

At that moment, a woman approached them, climbing the steps to the basin carefully. She was young, dressed in white with a gossamer shawl around her shoulders, fragile in build but strong in posture. Her blonde hair fell nearly to her waist, held in a long braid that ran down her back. From the barely-disguised grief in her face, James assumed this was Steven’s mother. Rather suddenly, he felt a surge of sympathy, and also guilt. James was taking this woman's child away to live the secluded life of a Philosopher, a prophet of the future, the hope and deliverance of their land. But to this young mother, all that likely mattered was that her baby would never truly be hers again. The child was to be allowed visits from his mother, but he would never live with her, nor was she permitted to live with him in the Tower. (“Outside influences” were to be sparse.) He would barely know her embrace, the taste of her cooking, the warmth of her hands. Their contact would be limited, regulated by the decisions of superiors and enforced by James himself.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before he could stop himself. 

She smiled sadly at him and shook her head. “Don’t be. I know you’ll take care of him. I just... I wondered if I could hold him one last time...”

James looked to the Grand Philosopher for guidance. The elderly woman nodded.

“Of course, Sarah,” she responded. Her tone was gentle. She had no doubt watched hundreds of mothers lose their children to their inevitable destinies in the Order. Based on how relaxed she was, James guessed that Sarah had been polite enough about the whole thing to actually attend the ceremony without major issue. He imagined women of lesser composure screaming, crying, begging for their babies to be returned or else trying to take them by force. If they were even allowed to attend. From what he understood, it was a privilege few parents received.

Sarah held out her arms, and James gingerly delivered the child to her, handling him as if he were made of glass. The young mother chuckled softly at his wariness as she drew Steven to her chest.

“Don’t be worried. He won’t break so easily. My boy is made of stronger stuff than that,” she said, turning slightly to address the infant in her arms more privately. He heard her speaking softly to Steven, almost in a sing-song, as she rocked him gently back and forth, her eyes sparkling like gemstones in the chamber's strange light. 

“You're going to be so wonderful, I know you are. You already make me so proud, little one..." Her exhale was soft, her inhale stifled to keep from sounding like a sniffle. The smile on her face began to quiver as she fought to keep it in place. "I’ll love you for always, I’ll love you forever, and forever my baby you’ll be. I’ll see you soon, my Steven.” She pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Steven made a happy sound, reaching for his mother's cheek, cuddling into her familiar warmth. Sarah seemed to choke back tears as she held him close and whispered, “Be brave, my sweet. Be as strong as I know you are.” With that, almost as if she knew she lacked the strength to endure it a moment longer, she handed the baby gently back to James. Almost immediately, Steven started to cry. He reached his pudgy little hands toward his mother and sent up a wail like he was dying, and it was all James could do not to cry himself.

“Shhh, shh, you’re safe, you'll be safe with him... Hush now, sunshine boy,” Sarah cooed, reaching out to her son reassuringly. Just before she could touch him, the black-clad Tower Guard made their approach and surrounded James and his charge, and the young mother was shouldered as politely as possible out of the way. He caught a glimpse of her from between two of the guardsmen, covering her face with her hands as her shoulders began to shake with soundless sobs. 

_Sunshine boy,_ thought James, looking down at the infant howling in his arms and feeling a fresh pang of remorse in his chest. 

He raised his voice enough for her to hear as he was guided away. “I will take care of him,” he called out. “I swear, I won’t let anything happen to him!”

Sarah turned to look toward him, smiling through her tears, and he saw her mouth back, _“I know.”_


	2. Bucky Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James gets a new name, and Steve is a tiny badass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look I'm actually updating this like a real fic writer
> 
> This whole chapter is just happy fluff with wee Steeb. Hope you enjoy it. There are two parts, one where Steve's around sixteen months old, then jumping forward to age four. Next bit will start getting a bit more serious concerning Bucky's actual job. Steve will still be a cute kid, though.

“Juh—jjj...”

“James,” the Guardian said softly, patiently, bending over the young boy’s cradle, watching as that tiny mouth struggled to form words.

“Juhhh... Jays... J-Jase.” Steven’s brow furrowed in a toddler’s frustration. He reached up and grabbed on to a piece of James’s hair, as he was prone to, and James bent lower to allow it.

“Jaaames,” he said, slower. Behind him, he heard Sarah chuckle.

“He’ll get it eventually,” she told him, crossing the room like a cloud. Steven immediately brightened.

“Mama!” he exclaimed, sitting up and reaching for her, similarly wrapping his little fingers around a lock of her long blonde hair. James stepped to the side slightly and grunted.

“He seems to know who you are just fine,” he mumbled, crossing his arms. He didn’t want to admit that a sixteen-month-old child being unable to pronounce his name hurt his feelings a little bit, particularly when he was that child’s immortal protector, but...

“Mama is much easier to say,” Sarah noted, tickling Steven under the chin, who giggled in joy and batted at her slender white hand. “He knows who you are. He just doesn’t know what to call you.” She quickly scanned the crib and frowned. “Oh, no,” she said, in a soft, pretend-worried voice. “Where’s your Bucky Bear, Stevie?”

“Bucky... Bear?” James raised an eyebrow high enough to hit the ceiling.

Sarah laughed again. She had a beautiful laugh, clear and soft and loving, just like she was. James had grown to admire her a great deal – not to mention, she’d taught him basically everything he knew about taking care of his very young charge. The older Steven got, however, the less Sarah was allowed to visit. This fact concerned him.

“It’s his favorite plush toy,” she explained. “A teddy bear I was given by a friend while I was still pregnant. He’s had it since he was born... He won’t sleep well without it.”

Those words brought James immediately to attention, but his disbelief remained. “Bucky Bear, though?”

“Oh, he’s just always been called that,” Sarah replied, starting to poke around the room. James quickly accompanied her, despite not being sure what he was looking for. “I don’t even remember where the name came from. It just sounded nice. Easy to say. Catchy.”

“Bah-kee!” Steven crowed from his bed.

“He can also pronounce it,” she added, smiling. “Ah. Here it is. I wonder who moved it...” The young mother drew a brown stuffed bear nearly the size of Steven himself from behind a chair. The bear seemed to be made of a soft material, with cream-colored circles on its nubby arms and feet for paws, and a darker fabric shape around its eyes that almost resembled a mask. It was clearly hand-made, buttons trailing down one side where the toy had been sewn up. It made it look a bit like the bear was wearing a coat, James reflected. “It must have fallen back here,” Sarah said, dusting off the bear with a few quick sweeps of her hand and placing it back in the crib. “There you go, my love." 

Steven immediately wrapped his small, chubby arms around the bear’s head and buried his face in the soft chest of his favorite toy. James returned to the edge of the crib, looking down at his master with an expression both of confusion and adoration. Almost everything Steven did was endearing to him, but his obvious love for a stuffed toy nearly bigger than he was had to be near the top of the list.

“It might have been one of the maids, last time the sheets were changed,” he said, leaning on the railing of Steven’s bed and watching him with a soft smile. “I’ll let them know for next time.” 

“Thank you,” Sarah began to say, a moment before one of the Tower Guard stepped into the room, tall and imposing in a crisp black uniform with the symbol of Arcturus emblazoned on the chest. The silver buttons of the coat, James reflected, were similar to the ones on Steven’s bear. The thought made his lips quirk. It was an amusing comparison.

“Ma’am,” said the guard, “your escort has arrived to take you back to town.”

“Oh.” Sarah’s face fell slightly, but she smiled all the same. She was always smiling. She bowed her head to the guardsman. “Thank you. Tell them I’ll be right out.” The mother returned to her child’s side as the black-clad guard left the room.

Bucky exhaled through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he said instinctively. He almost always apologized when it was time for her to leave. It had never seemed right to him that she was not permitted to live here, and he would never feel entirely comfortable with the Order’s policy about parental visits. 

“Don’t be,” Sarah replied quickly. “I’ll be back soon enough. Until then, you and Bucky Bear will have to keep him company... Isn’t that right, sunshine boy?”

“Bah-kee!” Steven answered, giggling and hugging the bear hard. Bucky drifted to the edge of the cradle, looking down at the two with the same vexed expression. What comfort a combination of cloth and stuffing could provide was beyond his emotional range. He had no memories of his childhood, no idea if he had ever possessed anything similar. Steven pressed his face against the bear’s and cooed happily.

“He always feels safer with Bucky Bear next to him,” Sarah said, leaning over to lift Steven out of the cradle and hug him to her body. “I’ll see you soon, baby boy. As soon as I can.”

Being a baby, Steven didn’t entirely understand what she was saying. Instead, he pointed in James’s direction and said, quite firmly, “Bah-kee.”

James blinked. “What? No, Steven, it’s James, remember? I’m James.”

“Bah-kee!” Steven answered insistently. Sarah laughed.

“I think you may have been christened,” she said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. 

“Oh, no,” James protested, hands up. “I am not going by Bucky. I’m not a teddy bear. Besides, what kind of name is that? Nobody’ll take me seriously if—”

“Bahkee!” This time Steven’s tone was decisive, as if the matter was settled. Sarah shrugged, setting the boy back in his crib. 

“He’s always been strong-willed,” she reminded him. “It looks like he’s made up his mind.”

“Yeah, but... why? I don’t look anything like his toy.” James was broad-shouldered, just shy of six feet, with angular features and piercing blue-gray eyes. He wore the uniform of the Guardian of Arcturus – a long, dark gray coat accented in silver and red at the sleeves and in the symbol on the back. He wore a loose shirt beneath that was roughly the color of blood, black trousers, and high black leather boots fit for travel or combat. A bladed pistol was strapped to either hip by a metal and leather harness that fit beneath his coat. In general, he didn’t look particularly cuddly.

“Do you have to?” Sarah asked, positioning the bear at Steven’s side. “Bucky Bear is his protector and his friend, and so are you. Maybe it isn’t so inappropriate.”

James sighed and ran a hand over his face. Steven bounced a bit and said “Bah-kee!” again, this time making indicative grabby hands toward his Guardian. Bucky stepped close and combed his fingers through the boy’s fluffy blond hair. 

“Keep him busy while I leave,” Sarah said, lightly touching his shoulder as she moved away. The newly-renamed Bucky nodded, brow still slightly knit, and picked up a book he could read to his master.

 

\---

 

“When is Mama coming to see me again? Will it be soon?”

“Hush, child. You must focus less on your mother and more on your studies. She would want you to be at your best.” 

“I guess...” 

Bucky stood silently outside the door to the Tower library, homing in on the voices of Steven and his current tutor. It had been difficult to adjust to his new senses – their range, their intensity. Thunderstorms were hellish. When Steven had still been a baby, his crying had felt like someone was forcibly trying to remove Bucky’s eardrums with an ice pick. But he knew why he had them, and what they were really for, and the benefits far outweighed the drawbacks.

For instance, he was an excellent eavesdropper.

“Don’t you want to be a good Philosopher, Steven?”

Gods, Bucky had a bone to pick with this tutor. The Guardian found his methods... unsavory. The old man’s way of convincing Steven to study seemed to be to guilt trip him, rather than giving him reason to enjoy it. The boy was four years old. Why he wasn’t spending the majority of his time playing in the garden was beyond Bucky’s comprehension.

Apparently, Philosophers had to start somewhere, and that “somewhere” was incredibly early childhood. Because ripping them away from their parents at birth wasn’t enough for them, apparently. If Bucky didn’t know better, he’d say the Order was created exclusively to ruin the lives of intelligent, innocent children.

Down, boy, he thought to himself, letting the fingers of his left hand uncurl and relax. He had made a fist without thinking about it at the vaguest idea of a threat to his master. His allegiance was specifically to Steven, not to the Order; he felt no compulsion to love or respect Philosophers as a whole, which honestly felt like a major flaw in the whole Guardian plan. But it wasn’t his place to go critiquing societies working for the greater good of humanity, or whatever it was they were doing. So his cavalcade of snarky comments remained coiled in his head, a restless, growing snake.

The most startling thing he’d discovered over the course of the past few years was how aggressively he loved Steven. The attachment was alarmingly strong. He didn’t know if it was this way for all Guardians, but Bucky was hesitant even to let Steven out of his sight. There was no word to name the kind of ruthless affection he felt. It was a complete and unwavering devotion, the kind that left him a nervous wreck the moment they were apart, that turned him into a wary guard dog the moment he sensed an unfamiliar presence around the tower. (He more often than not found those presences to be rabbits, or the feral cats that had inexplicably taken up residence somewhere in the garden, but one could never be too careful.) He adored Steven unconditionally, wanted nothing but his safety. The boy’s smile was enough to make his purpose seem worthwhile, even if everyone else was seventeen kinds of shit. Steven was his guiding star, warm and bright, and nothing could ever come between them. Bucky wouldn’t let that happen.

And that was why this tutor had to leave. Bucky had a bad feeling about him, and if there was one thing he had learned as a Guardian, it was that his bad feelings were correct roughly 98% of the time. That other 2% was a risk he was willing to take for his master’s safety.

He pushed open the door and glided nonchalantly over to the stone table where Steven was miserably poring over a history book far too advanced for him, watched over by the unpleasant-looking old man. The older Philosopher was one of those types who always looked like he was smelling something rotten, his face twisted in a permanent expression of scorn, with a small upturned nose and dark eyes that were set in a permanent squint. Bucky hated him.

“This lesson is over for today,” Bucky announced, finding his place at Steven’s side, one hand on the back of the boy’s chair.

“Excuse me?” The tutor narrowed his beady eyes at him. “When the lesson is complete is not for you to decide, Guardian.” There was a note of contempt in his voice. In the brief exchange of glances Bucky had with this man’s own Guardian, a powerful-looking woman with dark red hair, their relationship was not well-reciprocated. She had been left to wait outside, which clearly made her uncomfortable, but an order from a Philosopher was an order. It was painful for Bucky to see her unwavering trust and compulsion to protect reflected back at her with disdain. Not every Philosopher thought of their Guardians as people. Many thought of them as servants, or even tools. This crotchety pot of moldy cheese was one of them.

“The lesson is over,” he repeated. “My master needs his rest. He was ill not two days ago.” If there was one thing that weighed heavily on Bucky’s mind, it was Steven’s physical fragility. The boy had a weak heart, trouble breathing, and his hearing seemed to be impaired. His immune system wasn’t well-developed and he was frequently sick, along with the prophetic dreams that kept his nights restless and his head pounding. Steven’s Sight was apparently remarkable, but erratic, hard to decipher, and difficult to bear – the visions left him with headaches more often than not that Bucky was often helpless to treat. Not that he didn’t continue to try.

Bucky had once heard one of the Tower servants comment that he resembled a mother hen. (The other had argued that the Guardian resembled a mother bear more than a hen, to which the first servant reluctantly agreed.) The comparison didn’t bother him; not so long as Steven was safe. And as much as the boy’s health was a source of anxiety for him, it was also a phenomenal excuse for almost any situation.

“He may have been ill two days ago, but he is not ill now,” the tutor replied irritably. Bucky gave him a patient smile that he hoped was patronizing and placed a hand on his master’s shoulder.

“Young Master,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Being as smart as a whip, the four-year-old caught on immediately. “Uh... my head hurts. And my tummy feels icky... and I’m really sleepy...” He gave a little yawn for emphasis, stretching his tiny arms into the air. (Which was completely and utterly adorable. Objectively, of course.)

The tutor narrowed his eyes.

“Straight from the horse’s mouth,” Bucky continued smoothly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my master to bed. You are dismissed, sir.”

“Dismissed!” blustered the old man. “Dismissed by a Guardian! How dare you presume to—” He was clearly on the edge of a rant. Bucky grounded himself and prepared to tune out. His mind began to stray back to the cats that had made the Tower garden home.

“Excuse me,” Steven piped up. His hands were folded in his lap, bright blue eyes trained on the Philosopher across the table. “While you are in my Tower, I would ask that you not speak to my Guardian that way.”

The expression that crossed the tutor’s face had Bucky screaming with internal laughter, but the only outer indication of his amusement was a little twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I never...” The Philosopher grumbled and began to gather his things while Bucky glowed with silent pride. Four years old, and Steven could tell off a man twelve times his age. “The nerve...”

“I don’t believe we’ll be requiring your services again,” Bucky noted. “Please inform the Order we’ll be needing a new teacher.”

“Anybody who treats Guardians like you do has no place in the Tower of Arcturus,” Steven added, nodding with all the resolve his skinny body could muster. “My mother—” and he put specific emphasis on the word “—has told me you should do your best to be kind to everyone. I live by that. You should, too.” 

A lesson in morality from a four-year-old. Bucky grew more impressed with his charge every day. The tutor glowered, lifting one of his books and storming from the library. Bucky winced when he heard the man’s sharp voice commanding his Guardian and felt an even deeper sense of relief that Steven was turning out so ferociously kind-hearted.

Steven looked up at his Guardian and smiled, a secret and sweet smile that was reserved for Bucky. Seeing it always made him feel... special. “Thank you,” he said quietly, eyes flicking down again. Steven didn’t like to have to ask for help – he insisted on doing as many things on his own as possible and despised being coddled. Bucky knew the significance of the words.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replied, smiling back. “It’s my job to keep you safe. Dragons, nasty old men, same difference to me.”

Steven laughed and slid off the chair, his little hand curling around Bucky’s fingers. “I don’t really have to go to bed, do I?”

The Guardian grinned and looked down at his charge. “Nope,” he replied. “It’s beautiful out today. As soon as that old coot is out of here, why don’t we go for a walk? Your cats might even be around.”

“Ah!” Steven made a sound of excitement and ran for the door, his robes streaming behind him. He paused at the heavy wooden door, looking back at Bucky with gleaming eyes. “Come on, then, let’s go! I’m gonna name them today. Every one of ‘em I see. And you can tell me the names of the flowers. Come on, Bucky!”

Bucky smiled and followed the romping little boy out of the room, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat.


End file.
